


Dirt of a Grave

by a_little_chai



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Another result of writing too late at night, Drabble, Episode: s02e15 Revelations, Gen, God’s Will, Mental Instability, One Shot, References to Drugs, Russian Roulette, Self-Doubt, Souls, Spencer Reid Whump, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-07 22:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20983334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_little_chai/pseuds/a_little_chai
Summary: Supervisory Special Agent Doctor Spencer Reid, PhD times three. Genius with an IQ of 187. Eidetic memory.Drug addict. Reads twenty thousand words per minute. On the most elite unit of the FBI before turning twenty-one.Sinner. Three doctorates, five BA’s.Murderer.(Takes place immediately after Revelations)





	Dirt of a Grave

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y’all! This is another attempt at writing Spencer. I’ve been struggling a lot trying to write anything with a plot, so doing some random drabbles has helped a lot. 
> 
> This is meant to be just post-Revelations when Spencer was in the hospital. 
> 
> No warnings beyond drug use.

His brain is totally, utterly, blank. It was an odd feeling. Like there was something just out of his reach, just _there_, that he couldn’t grasp. His fingers kept falling through it. 

There was dirt on his hands. It coated his palms, was shoved deep under his nails. Blood was there too. It wasn’t his, somehow. It should’ve been his. 

He tried to wash it off, but it stuck. A mark on his skin just as black as the blemish on his conscience. It was Tobias’ blood. It was the blood of the man he killed. A sick man, but human nonetheless. 

His mind was spinning. The emptiness was a Ferris wheel running out of control, whipping jagged thoughts and cutting feelings through his synapses. 

He felt light. He felt free. 

He felt high. 

That’s what this all was: he’s high. Like a kite floating miles above a city. He can look down on his hands, on himself, but it was all intangible. Didn’t they see it wasn’t real?

Hotch had been there. He had had his arms around him. It had felt real and solid. But he was still floating. Nothing tethering him to the ground, so he was flying far above it. 

He could see his soul. It was dull, lackluster. Like it should be shining, but there was something in the way. Some sticky film that covered up brilliant colors and breathtaking views. 

He wanted to reach down and just _rub and rub and rub_ the curtain from his innermost self. But his hands were already red and the towel was stained with blood. Blood of his, blood of Tobias. The blood of angels and abusers. 

His nail beds were red also. They leaked crimson. He watched it. The dirt was getting into his body. There had to be something bad about soil from your own grave being in your circulatory system. Something. 

God’s will. It had been God’s will. That was what the angel said. A bullet, a revolver. Russian roulette at its finest. He could her it still. _Click click click click click-_

And still, he had killed him. Was that God’s will? Was that his purpose? To be a killer, a monster? 

There were track marks on his elbow. They had all seen it. Looked at him with knowing eyes and cracked smiles. They knew what it meant. 

Had that been God’s will? Was this punishment for his sins, as the abuser had said? His foot didn’t ache in its boot. Maybe that hadn’t been enough? 

Maybe it hadn’t been enough repentance? 

His hands were bleeding. The sink was red. He lifted one up, shaking fingers over his cheek. He felt the warmth there. Darted a quick tongue out and tasted copper. 

It dried. 

He clicked his tongue. It made a sound similar to that little gun. _Click click click click click._ Maybe this time it would kill him? 

There was a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t want to turn around. Their soul was bright and blue and glowing. A nurse whose name he didn’t know, doesn’t know, will never know. They have kids. Little bundles of yellow that shone through like miniature suns. 

He didn’t want to turn around and sully that soul. Not with his sins and half-made reparations. Not with the hands that killed another with God’s will. 

Was it God’s will? Was all this Him? 

Or was it just... him. Supervisory Special Agent Doctor Spencer Reid, PhD times three. Genius with an IQ of 187. Eidetic memory. Drug addict. Reads twenty thousand words per minute. On the most elite unit of the FBI before turning twenty-one. Sinner. Three doctorates, five BA’s. 

Murderer.

Was this his will? Was there some part, hidden deep beneath a sea of conscience, that wanted Tobias’ death? That welcomed the drugs as an escape from his family, a welcoming door into an alternate uncovered?

Was he the same as every other killer he’s ever help to catch?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please kudo or comment if you enjoyed!
> 
> ~You are loved, and never alone. We are here for you, and you are enough.~


End file.
